


Child Labor

by intangible_girl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, but nothing graphic, mentions of Bruce's shitty past, not that angsty though, spies starting young
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:45:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intangible_girl/pseuds/intangible_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short and simple fic based on this short and simple prompt: </p>
<p>"Bruce meeting/interacting with a 12 y/o Natasha.</p>
<p>All I want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child Labor

_“They start them that young?”_

_“I did.”_

Bruce remembers being that age, growing but not yet finished, gangly and a little disproportioned. And scared.

“Do you have a couple dollars for the bus, sir?” she asks, and he wonders if he’s hearing things or if she really does have a slight accent.

“Where are you headed?” he asks, folding his newspaper and giving her his full attention. She’s thin, almost dangerously skinny, and her eyes are large and wary. She reminds him of himself as a child so strongly it aches.

“Buffalo,” she says after studying him for a moment. “I have an aunt there.”

What he wouldn’t have given to have an aunt in Buffalo.

“That’s a little far to be traveling on your own,” he says, setting his backpack down on the floor and gesturing to the seat next to him. She sits, perching lightly as though ready to run away at a moment’s notice.

“I’m fourteen,” she says defiantly, and he thinks, _yeah, right, pull the other one_. But he just nods. He’s twenty-six and if he never wants to see his father again he doesn’t have to. Fourteen (or, more likely, eleven or twelve) had seemed like being on the bottom of a tar pit, struggling to swim high enough to free himself. Eighteen had been a revelation, a breath of fresh air, and now, almost ten years later (has it really been that long?) freedom is familiar enough to be comfortable.

He still doesn’t take it for granted.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much on me,” he says. “How about I buy you lunch?”

She tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear and looks up at him, calculating. The lock of hair immediately springs free, but she nods, once, twice, her trust obviously grudgingly given, and he smiles.

When he sits down on the bus and realizes his wallet is missing, he almost doesn’t care.


End file.
